


What's Past Is Present

by elrhiarhodan



Category: Kingsman (Movies), White Collar
Genre: Background Peter Burke/Elizabeth Burke - Freeform, Case Fic, Despite Single Mention of Statesman This is Not TGC Compliant, Harry and Eggsy Married, Hartwin, M/M, Mention of Diana and Clinton but they have no lines, Mozzie Being Awesome and a Little Shit, Neal Will Do Anything For Peter, New York City, No White Collar Season 6, Peter Will Do Anything for Neal, Pre-Series Neal Caffrey/Harry Hart | Galahad, So Much Dubious Technology, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: Set in a universe where Season 6 of White Collar didn't happen, Peter asks Neal - now a year or so off of the anklet - for some help with a art theft case.  Ironically, it's antiquities from the Mosul Museum, which had been sacked by ISIL in 2015, that are being sold by a gallery on Park Avenue.  Neal's eager to assist, at least until he sees the buyer's name.It's one he's unfortunately familiar with - Henry DeVere.Harry Hart and his new husband, Eggsy, had their honeymoon in Italy rather rudely disrupted when an old target resurfaces in New York City.It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt, or, don't blackmail spies.  They really don't like that sort of thing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in 2018, as a Chocolate Box treat, but set it aside when I got stuck (when my characters started behaving badly). I found it last week and realized that they were behaving badly and going all out of character because I wasn't being very nice to them. They just needed a little kindness to get them back on track.
> 
> Like many of my White Collar stories, it's based upon something I read in the New York Times. In this case, it's about the New York District Attorney's aggressive prosecution of the sale and possession of looted and stolen art. You can read the article [here](https://nyti.ms/2Ees1MD).

_Life is good_ , Neal thinks as he pours the last of the wine into his glass and relaxes deeper into the lounge chair. It's one of those rare perfect summer evenings, the last of the daytime heat surrendering to cool river breezes, the New York City sky filled with brilliant color as day starts its surrender into night. The birds are swooping around and settling into the trees and the drifting sounds of children playing a game in the nearby park is like some modern orchestral piece.

He looks over at Peter and smiles. Peter Burke, workaholic, doesn't notice anything about the gorgeous evening, but that's okay. A perfectly cut diamond doesn't need to acknowledge its setting. Neal isn't at all bothered by Peter's lack of attention; he's well accustomed to his lover's behavior and he'd sooner try to change the tides than interfere with Peter while he's working.

The last of the daylight is slipping away when Peter finally says something. "You might be interested in this one."

Neal turns from his contemplation of the sky to see Peter holding out an FBI folder. He feels a quiver of excitement. It's been a while since Peter's had work for him. "Really?" 

"Yes, really. The Manhattan District Attorney's Office has requested the help of the FBI in closing an art theft case."

"The Antiquities Project?" Neal has to restrain himself from grabbing the folder out of Peter's hands.

"The very same." Peter grins at him.

For the last few years, the Manhattan DA has been helping various foreign governments seize and repatriate looted art and antiquities held by museums and private citizens, arresting and charging the brokers and buyers of the stolen works. To say that Neal had been itching to get in on that action would be an understatement; soon after Peter had removed the tracker for the very last time, Neal had sent his resume to the DA's office and offered his services, but had never heard back from them.

But as eager as Neal is, he doesn't take the folder yet; he wants Peter's impressions first. "I thought the DA's office has been very protective of these cases, there's too much good publicity to surrender to the Feds. Why bring in the FBI now?"

Peter sniffs, he's expressed his annoyance at the shut out before. "Apparently this new case is involving some very high profile foreign buyers. An Earl and his brand new husband are in town to pick up their latest acquisitions."

Neal raises an eyebrow. "So the FBI will take the hit to its reputation if this goes south, and Vance's team can point fingers at us – " Neal can't be bothered to correct himself, even if he hasn't been a full-time FBI consultant for two years. "Calling us out of control cowboys, too intent on showboating to observe the niceties." 

Of course Peter notices Neal's slip and chuckles. "I do love how you can't help but include yourself in that statement. So, I guess you're interested?"

"Hell, yes." Neal still makes no move to take the folder. "Anything else I should know?"

"The pieces in question are from Iraq, supposedly looted during the sack of the Mosul Museum by ISIL in 2015."

Neal doesn't bother to stifle the snort of bitter laughter. "Nothing new under the sun, it seems. Any interest in recalling Lauren Cruz from Miami for this?" 

To Neal's surprise, Peter doesn't take the question as a joke. "No, I don't think so. Last I heard, she left the FBI for some hush-hush private contractor position."

"Hmmm." Neal had never really warmed to Lauren, nor she to him, but he'd always thought she had the makings of an excellent agent. "Okay, let me read this."

Peter actually pulls the folder away. "You know the drill, once I let you look at this, you're committed. That's the terms of our deal."

"I know. Civilians aren't supposed to have access to FBI data without the proper safeguards in place. I've read my agreement with the Bureau. By reviewing this file, I'm committed to participate in the operation, only to the extent permitted by the supervising agent." Neal repeats the words of the contract like a mantra.

"And we both know that the supervising agent will give you just enough rope to hang yourself if you feel the need to go off and dance to your own music."

"You're mixing metaphors, Peter."

"I know." Peter grins and Neal smiles back. From the very beginning, this kind of banter has always defined their relationship. "Just want to make sure you understand. You've wanted a part of this project for a while; I'm surprised you never asked me to use my influence with the DA's office to get you inside."

"I'd thought about asking, but …" Neal doesn't finish the sentence, he doesn't need to explain himself to Peter.

Peter nods. "You want to stand on your own. I get that."

Neal knows that Peter truly does understand how much Neal wants to be the man and not the con, how much he wants to prove to himself that he can walk the line and still be Neal Caffrey. "Can I see the folder now?"

Peter gives it to him and Neal heads inside, leaving Peter to finish his beer and watch the moon rise.

Satchmo, who had preferred the cool, air-conditioned confines of the apartment to the evening warmth of the balcony, lifts his head when Neal comes in. He gives the old boy a good head and chin scratch and lets the dog go back to his dreams. Like everything that's alive, Satchmo is growing older; he spends most of his time sleeping these days. Neal's dreading the day when the Lab, more gray than yellow now, doesn't wake. 

But that day is not today, and Neal puts the sadness out of his mind. He takes the file and a fresh glass of wine over to the table and sits down to read.

FBI files have a language and structure completely their own, one that had initially frustrated Neal. Now that he knows the idiom, reviewing an FBI file is like reading any other foreign language. The first section details recent efforts by the Manhattan DA's office in recovering looted artifacts and the occasional assistance provided by the FBI. That bit surprises Neal, since Peter had said that the White Collar division hadn't been in on the action until now. Neal reads a bit further and that all of the assistance has been given by the Art Crimes Division, a group that Neal wants nothing to do with, even though Phil Kramer and Melissa Matthews are long gone from there.

The next section is on the history of the Mosul Museum and to Neal's delight, it mentions the case he'd help close back in 2009, the one where Elizabeth's friend's husband had been framed. He sighs, those were definitely the days. If he remembers correctly, that case was the first time Peter and Mozzie met, and the first time he'd gotten Moz involved in the actual caper.

No, not caper. _Operation_.

Moz, in typical fashion, had never wanted any recognition of saving the day. 

Neal's heart breaks a bit when he reads about the destruction of the Mosul Museum by ISIL, the sheer destruction of so much history, including some of the pieces that Neal had helped return.

At least some things were saved, only to be smuggled out of the country and put up for auction by various black market dealers. The DA's office has traced seven artifacts to a gallery on the Upper West Side, which – according to their inside source – is selling them this week to Henry Stephen Anselm DeVere, the eighth Earl of Hatton. The files notes that the pieces are apparently a wedding gift from the Earl to his young new husband, the former Mr. Gareth Unger, who had been an archeology student before marrying into the DeVere fortune.

 _Henry DeVere._

That name rings a bell in Neal's memory, and the sound is discordant. Neal had once known a Henry DeVere, tall and suave and smart. He'd fascinated Neal for a while. For one heady summer in England, while taking time off from his search for the music box, Neal had been scamming Dmitri Roscov, a Russian oligarch; pretending to broker the underground sale of French Impressionists to the man. Of course, he'd been selling his own carefully created forgeries and equally false provenances, and collecting hefty profits from both the purchase price and his own "commission". He'd met Henry DeVere, billionaire, at house party that Dmitri had been hosting in Surry, and Henry had expressed an interest in both art and Neal's body, and Neal – lonely and a bit skin-hungry – had let himself be seduced.

He'd enjoyed himself immensely; in addition to his intelligence, Henry had been sexually generous in ways that Neal hadn't experienced before – not with Vincent and certainly not with Keller. But the liaison had come to an abrupt and bloody end when Dmitri had sent his goons to kill him and Henry, and Henry had – right before Neal's eyes – turned into a merciless killing machine. By time it was over, just a minute later, Neal had been soaked in blood and the six men sent to kill them had been reduced to little more than cooling sacks of meat on his bedroom floor.

Henry had stood there, naked, blood-stained, gun in one hand, knife in the other and told Neal to get cleaned up and dressed, as politely as if he'd been asking him to fetch a bottle of wine from the cooler. Stunned by the violence, Neal had obeyed and when he came out of the bathroom, he had found Henry dressed and waiting for him. The next thing Neal remembered had been waking up in a brightly lit cell, hooked to a lie detector, and a bunch of men questioning at him. They wanted to know how deeply he'd been involved in Dmitri's organization, what he knew about guns and yellowcake and all kinds of shit that had nothing to do with the seven paintings he'd forged.

Neal had no answers to those terrible questions, but they kept asked. Sometimes they shouted at him, trying to intimidate him. Other times, they took a gentler tack, promising him freedom and wealth if he'd just tell them what he knew. Neal, a master liar, couldn't lie. He knew nothing and stuck to that story.

Eventually, the interrogators had given up. They'd dosed him with something that made him sleepy and dumped him back at his apartment. He'd woken up confused and vaguely ill, but with no memory of what had happened. There had been a note from Henry on the nightstand, apologizing for his sudden departure, and that should have been that. Except a few days later, Neal had found a bullet casing between the mattress and headboard and all of the memories returned in brilliant Technicolor – the attack, the blood, the dead bodies, the interrogation, and one very strange image – the logo from one of the ritziest bespoke tailors on Savile Row, the reclining "K" of Kingsman on a computer screen.

Neal called Mozzie, told him what had happened, and Mozzie had done what Mozzie does best – digging. What Moz had discovered should have been enough to scare Neal into a life of good works - Henry DeVere hadn't been a billionaire investor and art collector, but a spy and a killer, code named "Galahad", and he worked for a super-secret organization fronted by that innocuous and over-priced tailoring shop. It seems that his organization had thought that Neal had been working for a terrorist group, funding arms purchases through the sale of forged and stolen artwork. 

Neal took that as a sign that it was time to come home and find Kate. The rest, of course, is history.

The set-up in the FBI file feels a bit too familiar to the operation Neal had gotten himself tangled up in all those years ago; except that the Henry DeVere Neal had known as hadn't been an English peer with a background in restoration architecture, but a self-made billionaire with fingers in the oil industry and the London property market. Of course, that had simply been a cover, likely one of many that Henry DeVere, spy and killer, had. 

Neal holds his breath as he goes to the next section of the file – the photographs. He ignores the pretty pictures of valuable things, and finds just what he'd hoped he wouldn't. Henry DeVere, the man Neal had once spent a summer fucking, is the exact same man looking to buy the looted antiquities, minus an eye and plus a few very distinguished gray hairs. This means that the whole case the DA and the FBI is working on is a sham. DeVere isn't interested in the looted art, he's after something else altogether. Neal's blood runs cold when he realizes that Peter could be walking into something he might not walk out of.

Neal does what he always does in moments of extreme panic, he calls Mozzie.

Mozzie answers on the first ring. _"Curious Cats Kitten Emporium, how may I direct your call?_

"It's me, Moz."

A pause, a beat. _"Oh, yes, so it is. Didn't expect to hear from you. Thought you had custody of the Dog and his Suit tonight."_ There's a considerable amount of acid in Moz's tone.

Neal restrains a sigh. Most of the time, Moz likes to pretend that he doesn't know that Neal and Peter are romantically involved with Elizabeth's profound blessing. Perhaps it's better that way, because Moz definitely does not approve and can be quite vocal about it. Tonight is one of those nights.

"I do."

_"Then why are you talking to me?"_

"I need some information."

 _"Try Google. Or the New York Public Library."_ Moz is definitely pushing it. But at least he's not hanging up. 

Neal reminds him "You did some research for me, back in '04, remember?"

_"The Music Box? Isn't that a little past its sell-by date?"_

Times like this, Neal wonders why he's still friends with Moz. "Not the Music Box, Moz. The tailors."

There's a freighted silence at the other end of the line. Then Moz needs just a single word to sum up both of their feelings. _"Shit."_

"Yeah. _Shit_."

_"I hope you're not thinking of getting a new suit made?"_

"Not in the least. I just need everything you have on them. Make sure it's completely sanitized. I may have to play chicken with them."

_"Does the Suit know?"_

"I haven't said anything to him yet."

_"Are you going to?"_

Neal looks out onto the balcony. Peter's gathering up his papers and the rest of the detritus of an evening spent out of doors, turning off the exterior lights as he comes in. "Not sure."

_"Be careful, mon frère."_

"That's all I am, these days."

Neal ends the call and goes to take Peter's empty beer bottle, putting it in the recycling bin.

"Talking to Moz?"

"How can you tell?"

Peter gives him The Look. "After all this time, don't you think I can't read you like the front page of The Post?"

"True." It is. Peter can read Neal and his moods almost as good as Neal can read Peter's. 

"What's going on?"

Neal does his best not to look at the file on the table. "Nothing, just yet. But I'll keep you posted when the situation changes."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter reaches across the bed and only finds cooling sheets instead of warm flesh. He opens his eyes and sees Neal in the living room, on the couch, reading. The lamp light is both cruel and kind to his lover, picking out the strands of silver at his temples, the tiny crow's feet at the corner of his eyes.

During the daytime, Neal seems ageless, no older than when Peter had first met him, but stripped of his suits and the glossy veneer of a confident personality, Neal Caffrey is as mortal as anyone.

Peter must have made a sound, because Neal looks up. "Why are you awake?"

"That should be my question."

"Just excited about getting a chance to work on the Antiquities Project." Neal smiles, and even in the half-light, Peter can read the strain in it. "And with you and the Scooby Gang again."

"You better not let Diana hear you call her Daphne."

"No, Clinton's Daphne. And Diana's Fred. You're Velma."

Peter pretends to be offended. "You know, orange is a good look on you. I can arrange for a lifetime supply of shirts and pants."

"Very funny, Peter. It's been a while since you trotted out that one."

Peter finds his pajama bottoms – a worn out pair of jogging shorts – and joins Neal in the living room. He sits next to Neal and unsuccessfully tries to pull the folder out of Neal's hands. "Instead of deflecting, why not tell me why you're really sitting up and reading a case file at – " Peter squints at the clock in the kitchen area "Three-sixteen in the morning?"

Neal closes the file and tosses it onto the coffee table. "Just couldn't sleep."

Peter tries for a salacious grin and asks, "Should I be insulted that I didn't wear you out?" 

"You left my body in a puddle of goo. Literally."

Peter almost chokes on his laughter. "Neal, that's gross."

"But true. That's what happens when you stop using condoms."

It's clear that Neal's not going to tell him what's wrong, what's bothering him. "If you're done, how about coming back to bed? Maybe I should have another go at wearing you out."

Neal yawns and stretches. "Don't think that's necessary." He gets up and holds out a hand to Peter. "But I wouldn't say no to some mind-blowing kisses."

"I am a good kisser, aren't I?" Peter jokes.

"One of the very best. You know that Elizabeth told me she married you for your kisses."

"Now I'm insulted, I thought she married me for my pot roast." 

"Peter, I hate to tell you but no one would marry you for your pot roast."

"Satchmo would." Peter tugs Neal back towards the bed.

"Satchmo would eat out of the garbage can if you let him."

"That is true. And this is the most ridiculous three AM conversation I've ever had; which – considering the number of stakeouts I've been on – is saying something." Peter pushes Neal onto the bed. "Let's get some sleep. It'll be six before we know it."

Neal grumbles that he doesn't have to get up that early, but Peter ignores it and gives Neal the kiss he'd asked for. Soon enough, Neal's breathing deepens and evens out into sleep. It's a pity that Peter doesn't follow suit.

By five-thirty, he gives up on trying to sleep and heads out for a run through Riverside Park before the day gets too hot. On the trip back, he meets Neal, who's walking an equally sleepy Satchmo. By the time Peter gets out of the shower, boyfriend and dog are home and boyfriend has made coffee. The FBI file that had given both of them a sleepless night is back on the dining room table.

Peter finishes his first cup of Italian roast before commenting. "So, are you going to tell me what's the matter?"

Neal lets out a heavy sigh. He looks right and left and up and down, anywhere but at Peter.

"I'm getting worried, Neal."

Neal finally looks at him. "We've come a long way, haven't we? From where we started."

Peter's gut starts churning. This isn't going to be good. "We have."

"I've fucked things up a lot. I've gotten you into a lot of trouble over the years. A couple of suspensions, an arrest."

"A promotion, too. Can't forget about that." Peter doesn't like when Neal flays himself over the past. "I've told you, I have no regrets – ever – about anything."

"Do you trust me?" Neal's expression is wary, as if he's expecting to be hurt.

"I trust you with my life, Neal. With everything that matters to me. I would think you'd know that by now."

Neal doesn't say anything.

"What is it about this case? You've been off-key since you read the file."

"I need you to trust me, Peter. Not as a friend and lover, but as an FBI agent who has asked a former criminal consultant to provide input on a delicate matter."

Peter pours another cup of coffee and tries to figure out where the problem is and how he can minimize the fallout. "If I take the file back and tell the DA's office that they should handle it themselves, what's going to happen?"

"I'm not sure." Neal scrubs at his face. "Can you give me until this afternoon?"

Peter's torn. Neal – by his own words – is possibly scuttling a very high-profile case. Admittedly, the Manhattan DA's office has done all of the hard work; the FBI is getting in on the action only because a British peer is involved. "The buyers are taking possession of the pieces tomorrow and they are flying back to England right after, according to our contact in the gallery. The plan is to arrest them before they board their plane at JFK so we can include intent to export stolen property in the charges. You'll be on hand to do the authentication."

Neal nods. "So, nothing will happen until tomorrow."

"Right. I can give you until this afternoon." Peter thinks about the million things that can go wrong, and realizes that none of them can be worse that whatever is going through Neal's head right now. "I trust you, Neal. 

Neal closes his eyes, as if he's saying a prayer of thanks. "I won't let you down, Peter. I promise."

"You never do, Neal."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy's having a lovely time on his first visit to New York City. Pity that it's for work and it interrupted his honeymoon with Harry in Tuscany.

Eggsy's surprised at how much he loves New York. It's big and brash and loud, but the people are surprisingly kind. That's not something he'd expected. It's also surprisingly democratic. The days when Eggsy puts on his chav wear and walks through Knightsbridge or Kensington or Mayfair, he still gets dirty looks. He doesn't see that in New York – everyone goes everywhere and no one holds their nose in the air. Take, for instance, the gallery that he's got under surveillance right now, on posh-as-fuck Park Avenue. He's been hanging around the bus stop in front of the gallery for an hour or so, dressed in baggy jeans, a tee-shirt, and a snapback. Or, as they call them here, a baseball cap with one of the local team logos on it. No one's told him to scram; no one's called the filth, nothing. Police cars have cruised by, none stop.

_"Report, Galahad."_

"Mark's still inside." And then the gallery door opens, and the man Eggsy's had under surveillance emerges into the mid-morning sun, blinking like a bear just woken from a winter nap. He puts down the briefcase he's carrying to shove on a pair of aviator style sunglasses, and looks like a walking cliché. He picks up his briefcase and starts moving. Eggsy alerts Harry, who's running the operation from their hotel suite. "Wait, he's just exited and heading south, towards Grand Central Terminal."

_"Follow at a safe distance and keep in contact."_

"Copy, Arthur."

The mark, a banker for several Middle Eastern terrorist groups, walks down Park as if he doesn't have a care in the world, as if it doesn't matter that the drug money he launders and funnels back to his clients is used to pay for biological weapons and guns put in the hands of child soldiers. Eggsy's seen enough bastards like this piece of walking scum to know that they don't care about anything more than their cut of the action. 

It's a pity this is an extraction, not an execution. 

A few blocks north of the massive Met Life building, the mark turns the corner and Eggsy follows. Fifty-First Street has a bit less foot traffic, but Eggsy's still able to keep an eye on the mark until he enters one of Manhattan's many skyscrapers. It is also the building that houses the mark's offices and Eggsy lets Harry know.

_"Best not draw attention to yourself; I've engaged the bugs to record. Head back to the hotel."_

"And resume our honeymoon?"

Eggsy hears Harry sigh. _"We're on mission, Galahad. Please keep communications on point."_ There's a pause and Harry adds, _"If you make it back in time, I'll fuck you into the sheets and we can go to high tea if you're able to walk afterwards."_

Eggsy laughs and picks up the pace. "You've got a deal."

It's a decent twenty-five block walk back to the hotel, the super-posh Carlyle on Seventy-Sixth Street. The doorman doesn't blink at Eggsy's chav wear, just opens the door and wishes him a pleasant afternoon. Harry's rented one of the suites overlooking Central Park and it's not on Kingsman's dime. 

This really is supposed to be their honeymoon, and Merlin had actually been apologetic when he'd contacted them in Tuscany, letting them know that Callum Dyson, former IRA member turned hedge fund manager with the dirtiest of connections, has surfaced. It seems that Dyson's now working for ISIS and ISIL and the Taliban and whatever other murderous dirt bag nihilist gang of thugs would pay his fee. After three years out of the limelight, he's shown his face in New York, looking for a cash buyer for a half-million pounds worth of antiquities from the looted Mosul Museum. 

The case went from a mild simmer to a full boil when Dyson paid a call on the Argent Gallery, on Park Avenue and Fifty-Ninth Street. This particular shop has the Earl of Hatton on their _Must Contact First List_ for any pre-Hellenic ceremonial goods that may come their way, and it just so happened that three days ago, the gallery manager had contacted the Earl's secretary to let him know that seven pieces would be arriving by courier, and if his Lordship was available to view them in person, he would have the right of first refusal.

Two weeks after their wedding, a Kingsman courier arrived at Harry's Tuscan villa with a package containing everything they'd need to extract Dyson from the States. They had cut their honeymoon short and flown directly to New York, and while Eggsy loves Harry's villa with all of its rustic charm, there is definitely something about New York that calls to him. The vital life of the city, the people, the sheer fuck-you-and-die-but-how-can-I-help-you-today attitude. He sees the meanness, too – the homelessness, the casual cruelty of the wealthy to the not-wealthy, the racism, but those problems are endemic to any place with such a division between the haves and the have-nots.

But despite the meanness, Eggsy fucking _loves_ New York, and he wouldn't mind living here, except that his husband would likely object to the relocation, what with being the head of an independent clandestine spy agency, and Eggsy is his very best agent (although Roxy might take exception to that). 

He lets himself into their suite and finds Harry relaxing on the balcony with coffee and an old fashioned newspaper, doing the crossword puzzle. Harry tosses the paper on the table in disgust. "Americans, they don't know how to write proper clues."

"Anything from the bugs in Dyson's office?"

Harry picks of his tablet. "Nothing of note. Merlin's tracking his email and mobile communications, but there's nothing that's standing out."

"So, we can continue our honeymoon?" Eggsy cocks a hip and gives his husband that up-from-under look that's guaranteed to lead to the bedroom and a demonstration of just how flexible Eggsy Unwin-Hart actually is.

Of course, it works. Harry tosses the tablet on the table and stalks Eggsy, who simply walks backwards into the bedroom, striping his clothes off on the way. Harry follows suit.

Two hours later, freshly showered and shaved and utterly presentable, they are only twenty minutes late for their reservations for High Tea. Not that Eggsy wouldn't have minded skipping out on the reservation in exchange for another orgasm, but he's also food-hungry and Harry has promised him something special later tonight – which might be spoiled if they went for another round.

And it seems that despite the democratic nature of New York, a poncy title can buy a lot of courtesy. The hostess practically curtseys as she greets them. "We've held your table, Lord Hatton. If you would be so kind as to follow me."

Harry's wince is barely visible – the blacked out lens on his eyeglasses helps hide it. Technically, he should be addressed as Lord DeVere; Hatton is the earldom held by the DeVeres. But good manners matter more that technical correctness, so they follow the woman to a prime table in a small, semi-private alcove.

Harry lets Eggsy take the seat with the clearest view of the dining room, a mark of his trust in Eggsy's competence. Their modified Tokarevs are locked away – it would be a bit to brazen to carry so obviously. But they aren't completely unarmed; Eggsy's carrying a small SIG Sauer in an ankle holster and Harry has, despite the clear blue sky and bright August sunshine, his Rainmaker. Eggsy can't quite get away with carrying an umbrella everywhere he goes, but a man of Harry's age – and in this case, his title – is afforded some eccentricities.

As Harry had promised, the tea is a delightful treat. Once upon a time and not that long ago, Eggsy would have scoffed at the idea of eating cucumber and watercress or smoked salmon sandwiches with the crusts trimmed off, followed by sweet pastries with Devon cream and jam, while sipping a fragrant and lightly brewed tea. This is what the toffs, not what _real_ people, and especially not chavs like him, eat. 

Eggsy, though, has learned to take pleasure in doing things that might earn him a hard mocking and perhaps an attempt at a beat down by his friends – the ones that still live on Rowley Way, and having high tea at a posh restaurant with his husband is one of them.

As Harry asks Eggsy would be interested in seeing a performance of _Hamilton_ , something catches Eggsy's eye. No, not something, someone. Standing at the entrance to the restaurant, talking with the hostess.

Since becoming a Kingsman, Eggsy's met many beautiful people (and he seriously thinks his husband is the most beautiful of them all), but usually the setting is a party, a ceremony of some kind, an event where Eggsy calls himself _Galahad_ as a talisman, a reminder that he belongs right where he is, that he's not an imposter. However, Eggsy rarely encounters beauty like this in such a mundane setting. Or is the Palm Court at one of the most expensive and luxurious hotels in the world truly a mundane setting? No, not really.

"Eggsy, is everything all right?"

Eggsy refocuses his attention on Harry. "Sorry, was distracted by something." He feels a bit of a flush creep up his cheeks. Here he is, on a somewhat interrupted honeymoon with the alpha and omega of his very existence, and he's caught drooling over a piece of man-candy. _Way to go, Galahad._

Harry, ever the gentleman, doesn't comment on Eggsy's discomfort, and asks again, "If I can get tickets, do you want to go?"

"To see _Hamilton _? Ain't that sold out for like the next decade?"__

__"Not if you have connections and are willing to use them. This is our honeymoon, why not splurge?"_ _

__Eggsy thinks about it. He'd been the one to introduce Harry to the hit musical's soundtrack, and by the time it was over, Harry had been just as hooked as Eggsy. So it wouldn't be a hardship for either of them, except … "You said you had something special for me tonight. That's why you'd turned down round two."_ _

__Harry grins, looking just like the apex predator he is. "What have I taught you about anticipation, darling?"_ _

__But Eggsy's not listening. The man he's noticed before is walking right towards them, his stride purposeful, his gaze direct. Eggsy's not unfamiliar with that look, he's seen it on every Kingsman, every _spy_ he's ever encountered. Although he'd rather avoid a firefight in such a public place, Eggsy leans down and takes the SIG Sauer from its holster with one hand, with the other, makes a gesture taught to every Kingsman agent – thumb tucked between index and middle finger and he taps once on the table – _danger_._ _

__Harry puts a hand on the Rainmaker just as the man reaches the table._ _

__The stranger passes and Eggsy doesn't let himself relax just yet. A good thing, because the man stops, turns around and comes back to the table, a smile pasted on his face. He glances at Eggsy, dismisses him, and focuses on Harry._ _

__In his husband's single eye, Eggsy can see that he knows this man and what's about to follow will be unpleasant._ _

__"Henry DeVere, of all the people I expected to see today, you were not even on my list. It's been a long time."_ _

__To Eggsy's disappointment, Harry doesn't send the stranger packing. His husband just says, in that quiet – and deadly – tone of his, "Yes, Nick, it certainly has been quite a while."_ _

____

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Harry now understands his husband's brief distraction, because once upon a time, he'd been briefly distracted by Neal Caffrey, too.

Not fatally, of course. Neal – or Nick, as he'd called himself at the time – had been a young man of surpassing beauty, surprising talents, and highly questionable morals. They'd met at house party in Surry, where a certain Russian oil baron that Kingsman had an interest in had been showing off a newly acquired collection of French Impressionist masterpieces. Harry had wondered about the relationship between Nick and Dmitri, who had been – like many of his countrymen – a fiercely violent homophobe.

Nick had been quick to reassure Harry that Dmitri had no carnal attachment to him; rather, he appreciated Nick's ability to locate and procure the paintings that were his current obsession. Harry hadn't hesitated to take Nick up on the offer he so delicately made, seeing the young man as a way into the oligarch's inner circle. 

The summer of 2004 had been interesting, to say the least. Fucking Nick, pumping him for information, pretending to be interested in French Impressionists, none of that had been a hardship. Nick was smart, suave, an educated gentleman who seemed to rise above the sliminess of his employer. Of course, it hadn't taken long to for Merlin and his team to crack open the mystery of Nick Halden. He wasn't an art broker, but an art thief and forger named Neal Caffrey, and Harry hadn't been surprised to learn that every single piece of artwork, every Monet and Degas and Cezanne, he'd brokered the sale of had been his own work. 

The question had been, was Neal working for himself, or was he a front for one of Dmitri's rivals, hoping to bleed him dry and expose him as a gullible idiot?

It had all come to a bloody, messy end late that August. Dmitri had gotten spooked by sometime Harry had said or done, although at the time, Harry had thought it might have been Neal who had dropped a bad work in Dmitri's ear. Dmitri's bodyguards had come after Harry while Harry had been trying to extract the information he needed from Neal (unfortunately, they'd both been naked, except for condoms); and bodyguards ended up very dead, Neal ended up drenched in a spray of arterial blood, and Merlin had screamed himself hoarse at Harry for thinking with his dick.

He'd taken Neal to a beta site for interrogation and after a week, had been satisfied that Neal had been nothing more than a greedy tool. They'd dosed him with the maximum amount of the latest amnesia drug and left him back at his apartment with the implanted suggestion to get out of London for a while.

Harry had kept track of Neal Caffrey, renaissance criminal, for the next few months, and had been relieved when Neal had returned to New York and gotten himself arrested by the FBI soon thereafter. Relieved, but also disappointed. Neal Caffrey, or whatever he called himself, could have been, with the right incentive and training, a valuable asset for Kingsman. Not as an agent, of course, but as a tool, a wedge into places where Kingman agents could only follow.

And Harry also had to admit that Neal has a rather spectacular ass and knows how to use it to everyone's maximum benefit, and for a time, he'd missed that ass.

"Yes, it certainly has been quite a while."

"Fifteen years, give or take." Neal's smile is sharp and doesn't reach his eyes.

"Are you going to introduce us, Harry?" Eggsy's accent is like cut glass, a sign that his husband is seriously pissed off.

"Yes, _Harry_ , do introduce us."

Harry can feel the start of a migraine coming and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Nick, this is my husband, Gareth. Gareth, Nick Halden, a former – associate. Gareth and I are in New York for our honeymoon."

"My felicitations." Neal's gaze is just a trifle warmer as he turns to Eggsy. "You've got yourself quite a catch; billionaire investor, art collector, peer of the realm. How did you meet?"

Eggsy's smooth as he gives Neal the same cover story they'll be using with the Argent Gallery; that he's a former archeology student and had met Henry at a fund raiser for the antiquities division of the British Museum.

Of course, that piques Neal's interests. "Antiquities? Henry's certainly changed interests since we'd last met. Back in '04, he'd been exclusively smitten with French Impressionists. I'd been working with him, trying to broker the sale of one of Degas little ballerinas. Unfortunately, the deal fell through and we parted ways." Neal turns back to Harry, "I always had the impression that you wouldn't know the difference between a _krater_ , a _pyxis_ and a _skyphos_.

Harry shrugs, "I still can't distinguish between all the different kinds of ancient Greek pottery, but Gareth is doing an excellent job of educating me."

Neal nods and smiles blandly and Harry knows that this isn't some chance meeting; Neal's here and he's got some kind of game going, one he's trying to drag Henry DeVere into. Harry absently adjusts the fit of his glasses, engages the comm system and hopes that Merlin's on line and watching.

But there seems to be some kind of interference; while he can hear Merlin, he can't make out any words and the display on the glasses is completely scrambled. Harry catches Eggsy blinking and it seems that the communications problem is affecting him, too. So they are just going to have to wing it.

Neal's practically smirking when he asks, "Something in your eye?"

Harry does the unthinkable and takes off his glasses to wipe them with his handkerchief, leaving the scarred and empty socket exposed. 

Neal doesn't flinch. But he does ask, "V-Day?"

Harry replaces his glasses and nods.

"Those damn SIM cards. Friend of mine almost got himself killed in the melee. He'd been out buying wine when the world went crazy. Ended up smashing someone in the head with a bottle of '84 Chateau Petrus Pomerol. He still has nightmares about the lost wine."

Harry can't help but laugh. "An expensive way to save your own life."

"His life is well worth the cost." 

With that, the silence turns awkward. Eggsy pokes at the remnants of the cream tart on his plate with his fork, Harry refills his cup with the dregs from the pot, and Neal sits there like some pretty, but poisonous flower. This could go on all afternoon, but the static on the comms clears up for a moment and Merlin's voice comes through with some stunning news.

_"Caffrey's been working for the FBI."_

And oddly enough, just as Merlin's voice cuts out again, Caffrey takes off his own eyewear and his smile broadens into something toothy and rather dangerous.

"Nifty gadget, these." Neal holds up the eyeglasses. "Friend of mine made them; they can block incoming signals and hijack them, too. Your Scottish friend back at your home office was getting kind of cranky, what with not being able to get through to you, or to your 'husband' here. Called him _Galahad_. Funny, I thought you were Galahad. But apparently you're Arthur now, and get to sit in the big chair. Nice suit, by the way. Kingsman of Savile Row if I'm not mistaken."

Harry feels his blood turn to ice. Somehow, Caffrey's learned everything about him and Kingsman. "I don't think this is a conversation we should be having here, in such a public place." Harry makes a small gesture with his right hand, telling Eggsy to stand down but stay alert.

"Probably not, but I'm certainly not going anywhere private with either of you. Not if I want to live."

"Really, no need to be so melodramatic, _Neal_."

"Oh, Harry, I think I have every reason to worry." Neal gets up and then leans over to whisper in his ear, "I remember _everything_."

He straightens up and pulls out a phone and puts it on the table. "Consider this the first part of your wedding present. If you and your husband want the rest of the gift, get the phone unlocked and be at the address under my name at six PM. And just so you know, while I don't like guns; that doesn't mean I don't know how to use them."

With that, Neal saunters off.

Eggsy demands, rather rightfully perturbed, "What the fuck just happened?"

Harry looks at the phone and wonders just how much he's going to regret the rest of the day. "I'm not quite sure."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is worried about Neal, about him doing the wrong thing for the right reasons.
> 
> What else is new?

Peter can't get this morning's conversation with Neal out of his head.

_"I need you to trust me, Peter. Not as a friend and lover, but as an FBI agent who has asked a former criminal consultant to provide input on a delicate matter."_

The thing is, Peter does trust Neal, implicitly. He trusts Neal to have the right motives and the best of intentions. It's only when he thinks about Neal's methods that he had concerns.

Neal is very clearly worried about something in the file and Peter goes through it with a fine-toothed comb. There are only a few things that might be spooking Neal – the Argent Gallery, the individual selling the stolen antiquities, and the newly-married couple making the purchase.

The obvious choice is the gallery, it might be a place where Neal's done business with – dirty business in his days before the FBI, but a quick check shows that the gallery had opened only in 2005, while Neal had been awaiting trial. Peter checks another list, and the principals don't show up in any cross-references with Neal or any of his aliases in any of the FBI's or Interpol's databases. 

The seller of the stolen antiquities, Callum Dyson could be the trouble that Neal's looking to avoid. Peter looks into Dyson's background and finds no logical ties to Neal. The man is a former member of the Provisional IRA and has a history of violence. Back in '85, Interpol had put out a Red Notice for him, along with a few dozen other members of the Provos, but it had expired and there had been no other indications that he'd maintained contacts with his compatriots in Northern Ireland. It seems that Dyson had turned over a new leaf, or at least until he'd been tagged with trafficking in stolen antiquities. The current plan in this operation is to have the NYPD pick up Dyson after the sale at the Argent Gallery, as soon as the DeVeres leave for the airport, with the FBI trailing them.

Peter's gut tells him that Dyson isn't as the cause for Neal's squirrelly behavior; Neal has an allergy to violence and violent people, and would have immediately told Peter if Dyson had been a problem. With Dyson eliminated, the only players left are Henry Stephen Anselm DeVere, eighth Earl of Hatton, and his new husband, Gareth.

Peter dismisses the latter, Gareth DeVere, formerly Gareth Unger, is too young to have crossed Neal's path when Neal had been kicking around Europe. Which leaves the Earl as the prime suspect in this little mystery.

The picture in the file feels a bit like an official portrait and Peter has to admit there is something rather magnetic about the man. The biography the District Attorney's office had so thoughtfully provided is little more than a Wikipedia entry with a family lineage that goes back to the Tudors, education at England's oldest and most prestigious schools, a noted philanthropist with career as an restoration architect before inheriting his title. Stern good looks in a very British tweed sort of way – like some of the actors in the Masterpiece Theatre shows that El loves so much.

And Peter also has to admit, he's the kind of man that Neal would be attracted to. Wealthy, smart, with an artistic bent. And yet, even if Neal had crossed paths with DeVere in a previous life, there's nothing about the Earl of Hatton that should spook Neal quite so badly, or why Neal would be so squirrelly about it. Peter can't see Neal being ashamed that DeVere had once been either a former mark or a former lover, or both. 

Which means that DeVere might not be who the DA thinks he is. Peter stares at the picture and wonders just what Neal's gotten himself into.

_What else is new?_

There's just enough information in the biographical data for Peter to do a little poking. The obvious place to start is with the Earldom of Hatton. That's not something one can easily fake these days, not with on-line versions of the peerage directories. Peter goes to the Debrett's website, plugs in the FBI's password - because this type of identity fraud is just common enough that the White Collar Division has a paid subscription to the database - and does a query on Henry Stephen Anselm DeVere. 

The search results are a little disheartening. It seems that the Henry DeVere in the file really is the eighth earl, and the biography mirrors what is in the DA's report (it's so close that Peter thinks that Debrett's is the source of the DA's information). The only data that hadn't been in the report is that before DeVere inherited his title, he gone by one of the family's lesser titles, Viscount Hart, and had been known in certain social circles as "Harry Hart". The database has the same photograph as the one in the file, but for some reason, Peter doesn't quite buy what's on sale. 

There's something about this DeVere guy that sets his gut churning. And after such a long and storied career in the FBI, Peter knows he should trust his gut.

Peter goes out onto the balcony and thinks about pulling one of the probies in for some van duty, but decides against it. Taking the van out means there's a paper trail, and Peter really doesn't want anything like that when it comes to Neal. Best just keep this unofficial and under the radar. He goes back to his office, closes down his computer, takes the file and heads out, telling Diana and Clinton that he'll see them tomorrow. They don't question him, even though it's barely three in the afternoon. 

Nice being the boss.

The uptown traffic is midday and summertime slow and Peter hopes his gut isn't becoming fallible – he is, after all, a little out of practice in chasing Neal Caffrey. After he'd taken the tracker off of Neal for the very last time, Peter had joked about getting Neal one of those new watches with built in GPS and linking it to his own phone. Neal had glared at Peter and reminded him that he doesn't wear watches.

Now, Peter half wishes he'd thought to install a tracking app on Neal's phone. But as he pulls up to the Carlyle, he spots Neal walking towards him. 

Neal sees him, stops, and makes a bit of a face. "Don't tell me you have a tracker on my phone."

Peter has to laugh, "I was just thinking that I wish I had, that I'm out of practice chasing you down."

"And yet, here you are, in middle of the afternoon, right in front of the Carlyle as I'm leaving. Not so out of practice it seems."

"I took an educated guess that you'd be here. It's good to see that my Neal-detector is still working."

Neal rolls his eyes. "Want to head up to my place?"

"Yeah. I'm guessing we need to have a talk about Henry DeVere." Peter drops the name and watches Neal flinch.

Peter does enjoy making Neal turn a bit green with his driving, and the BMW is such a delight after all those years with the stodgy Taurus, so he floors it and weaves through the side streets before getting on the Hudson River Drive. By the time he pulls up in front of the Ellington mansion, Neal is definitely a bit green around the gills.

But Neal's not one to give into a little thing like motion sickness, and he hops out of the car with his normal vigor. June and Bugsy are in the front parlor, which means that they have to take a moment and make some polite conversation. Neal tells her that they are expecting two guests around six. June promises to bring them upstairs and asks Peter how Elizabeth is enjoying her job in D.C., which she is, very much so. Not that Peter dislikes spending time with June; he owes her far too much for all she's done for Neal – and for him – over the years. He also genuinely likes June; it's just that he needs to get Neal someplace private so they can deal with the business at hand.

June sees just how impatient Peter is and she doesn't take too much of their time before excusing herself to deal with some problem her granddaughter's brought to her attention. She gathers up Bugsy and sweeps out of the room like the grande dame that she is.

Neal makes the face, the one that Peter mostly adores, but also finds frustrating. It's his cat face (yes, while Peter might be a dog person, El had a cat when they'd first started dating and Peter had spent many hours trying to negotiate with the beast), where it's impossible to tell just what he's thinking, other than he's a bit worried that Peter might take out the spray bottle and spritz him.

They head upstairs and Peter lets Neal putter around for a bit. "You're still on the clock?"

"Does this need wine?"

"Yeah. Or maybe a lot of good gin."

"Mozzie involved?"

"Only tangentially."

"Thank god for little favors." Peter pulls his badge off his hip and drops it on the table. "Usual deal?"

Neal comes back with a bottle of Malbec, normally something he'd reserve for a meal, but apparently this conversation requires a bit more fortification than the usual French red that Neal would pour in the afternoon. "And put your badge away, I don't need your deal. None of what I'm telling you comes under your jurisdiction, any crimes committed are long past the statute of limitations, and most of the parties involved are dead."

The way Neal says that last word sets the hair on the back of Peter's neck stand up. "Oh?"

Neal gives him that other look, the one that says, "Don't be stupid". 

"Neal?"

"Give me a second, Peter." 

Peter sighs with impatience as Neal makes a production of uncorking the bottle, fetching glasses, wiping them clean, then pouring just the right amount of wine in each. "This is why I prefer screw-tops."

"You're a savage, Peter. How has El put up with you for so many years?"

"Well, as you know, I'm good in bed."

Neal laughs. "That's true. You are very good in bed."

"And I'm also a good interrogator."

"That's true, too. Want to strap me into another lie detector machine?"

"Is it necessary?"

"Not really. Just let me go at my own pace. This is … difficult." 

Peter can see that, but he still asks, "How long are you going to draw this out?"

"I have – " Neal looks over at the clock on the microwave, "another two hours."

Peter puts his wine glass down with a bit too much force. "Will you tell me what's going on?"

"Henry DeVere isn't who the DA's office thinks he is."

"I figured as much. If he'd been just a mild-mannered British peer that you had once scammed, you wouldn't be so damn squirrelly. Last time I saw you like this; it had been when you were trying to keep me away from Matthew Keller."

Neal concedes the point with a tip of his head. "Henry DeVere is both better and worse than Keller had ever been."

Peter's impressed and worried now. "That's saying something."

"DeVere is a spy. So's his 'husband'." When Peter doesn't comment, Neal adds, "My guess is that they are after Callum Dyson, who seems to be an afterthought for the DA's office."

Peter feels a bit vindicated about his gut reaction to DeVere. "Do I want to know how you know this? About DeVere?"

"Our paths crossed about fifteen years ago."

"When you were doing your thing in Europe. I hope DeVere hadn't been after the music box, too." Peter doesn't think it's likely, but then nothing about this conversation comes under the heading of "likely".

"Oh, not at all. Nothing to do with the music box. I had been brokering art for a Russian oligarch; he was collecting French Impressionists."

"You mean you were selling your own paintings and taking a commission on them."

Neal stifles a bit of laughter. "You know me too well."

"I'm pretty sure I remember that episode of your life, it had been right before you came back to New York. The oligarch you'd been scamming was Dmitri Roscov; we'd been trying to get Scotland Yard to issue a warrant for your arrest, but they kept putting us off. In hindsight, I suspect that MI-5 had been after Roscov and didn't want to spook him."

Neal doesn't say anything; instead he studies his wine glass as if it holds the answers to the universe. Peter realizes that he's just made a mistake. "Except that DeVere can't be MI-5. Not if he's here, chasing down Dyson. MI-5 can't operate internationally."

Neal is reluctant as he confirms, "No, he's not MI-5."

"And if he's MI-6, he should have registered the operation with local authorities."

Neal shrugs, "Should have, yeah, but you know how spies work. In secret."

Peter's encountered his fair share of unregistered foreign agents interfering in FBI operations, including those from America's allies, not to get overly worked up about the lack of paperwork. That's for embassies and consulates and Interpol to sort out. It's what those unregistered agents are actually doing that gives Peter a migraine. "This is going to be a cluster fuck of epic proportions, isn't it?"

"Yup."

Peter finally asks the question that's been gnawing at him. "Why did you go see DeVere? You didn't tell him about the case?"

"Hell, no. But he knows I'm working with the FBI. My visit with him was the first step in getting him to back off."

"And you didn't think to come to me?" Peter's just a bit put out. Okay, more than just a bit. This feels like old school Neal, doing an end-run around the FBI.

"DeVere's dangerous, Peter. I've had rather up close and personal experience with his abilities."

Peter remembers an old detail. "Roscov had been killed – it looked like an assassination, his throat had been slit and his body dumped in the Thames. I'd gotten word that his body had been found about six weeks after you'd been arrested; Scotland Yard had wanted confirmation that you had been in New York at the time of the murder."

"I don't know about Roscov getting whacked, but I saw DeVere take out six of Roscov's bodyguards when they'd burst into my apartment and tried to kill us."

"That's when he told you he was a spy?" Peter doesn't see that happening.

"No. DeVere didn't tell me anything. I found out afterwards – and the less I tell you about _that,_ the better."

"Neal, you know that I've never subscribed to the whole ignorance is bliss thing."

"When it comes to you, yeah. When it comes to me, I seem to remember you keeping some pretty big secrets."

"That's ancient history, Neal. I was trying to protect you from yourself. You have a way of being your own worst enemy." 

"I'm just trying to protect you and the FBI – because you can be your own worst enemy, too. You don't need to know the details, Peter. Remember how you stood between me and Senator Pratt? Between me and Amanda Calloway? Let me return the favor."

Despite Neal's impassioned plea, Peter can't let Neal play paladin. "I'm the FBI agent; I'm paid to take these risks. I also have a chain of command who will be more than happy to step in and make an international incident out of this." Even as Peter says those words, he knows that there's also the possibility of this turning to shit, that the brass will want it swept under the rug to avoid an international incident.

"Peter, don't. It's not worth the bad press or the hell that'll rain down on you and Elizabeth. Haven't you two been through enough?"

"What are you doing to get DeVere and more importantly, his agency, to back off?"

"Like I said, you're better off not knowing."

"It's too late for that. If I have to draw my own conclusions and they're wrong, this could be disastrous for all of us." Peter thinks for a moment. "You said Mozzie's involved, tangentially. Just how tangentially?"

Neal's sigh speaks volumes, "You know how good he is at data-mining."

Peter certainly does. Mozzie had been the one to put together the trail on Curtis Hagen through the barest threads of information. "So he's the one who found out that DeVere's a spy?"

"It's a little more complicated than that."

"I'm so not going to like what you're about to tell me, right?"

"In my defense, I'd only found out that he'd done more than what I'd asked for yesterday. I'd thought he'd just done his usual digging. Turns out that Mozzie had been a little creative and planted some hooks in a certain agency's systems. He's been passively collecting information on their operations for fifteen years."

Peter is impressed. "Mozzie's been spying on MI-6 since before I arrested you?"

Neal coughs and wipes his face, as if to hide something.

Peter sees that this isn't the end of it. "What else?"

"You're really good at keeping secrets, right?"

"I'd like to think so. I have a top level security clearance, keeping secrets comes with the job."

"Can you play dumb, too?"

Peter laughs, "That might be a stretch."

"How about playing along, just following my lead?"

"We've done _that_ a few times. I think I can manage." Peter hates making blanket promises, but he knows that Neal isn't trying to screw with him. "It's worse than Mozzie spying on MI-6, isn't it?"

"By several orders of magnitude."

Peter is definitely regretting some life choices right now. "Spill."

Neal doesn't even hesitate, "DeVere doesn't work for MI-6, but something else – an ally, but that's all you need to know. And you can put the thumbscrews on, but I'm not telling you the agency's name."

"Which is why they haven't filed paperwork on the operation." Peter sees the pieces fall into place. "You've let DeVere know what you've got on him and you're threatening to go all Wikileaks on his agency unless he backs off." Peter finds he rather enjoys the idea of Mozzie having hooks into a spy agency. It’s a bit of poetic justice.

"Not in so many words, but that's the general plan. I've shown him what I've got and he'll be here in a few hours to negotiate a settlement. They back off, give the FBI their data on Dyson and go home; let Anti-Terrorism scoop him up and Vance's team at the DA's office will collect the loot from the Argent Gallery and return it with great ceremony to the Iraqi government just in time for the next looting."

Peter isn't happy about this, but Neal's plan makes too much sense. He'll let Neal take the lead with DeVere but only up to a point. Neal's too important to him, and just as he has for the last decade, Peter won't let anything happen to his partner and best friend.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Eggsy discover just what Neal's "wedding gift" is, and even Merlin's extremely freaked out by it.

"He's got a set of balls on him," Eggsy says with bit of awe. And then, because he can't help himself, he adds, "And you would know, up-close and personal, like."

Harry gives him the stink-eye, and Eggsy resists giving his husband a one-fingered salute. He's trying to defuse the situation, not make it worse.

"Let's go back to the room; Merlin will be able to get this phone unlocked."

Eggsy's a little amused at how Harry gets up, Rainmaker in hand, and leaves, assuming that the wait staff will simply bill the meal to the room. But then he turns back, pulls out his wallet and drops some dollars onto the table since cash tipping is a thing here. Eggsy trails after him, feeling a bit too much like JB for comfort.

But the situation seems to be urgent and being Galahad for the last four years has taught him the importance of discretion and a good game face. So he keeps his thoughts about Nick Halden, or "Neal" as Harry had called him or "Caffrey" as Merlin referred to him, and the situation to himself until they are in the privacy of their hotel room.

But then Eggsy pounces. "I need to know what the deal is with that guy. He shows up, knows just who you are, has a pair of glasses that can override ours and listen into the transmissions. Merlin says he's FBI, but he don't look like any Fed that I've ever met. CIA? NSA? He ain't Statesman, that's for sure."

Harry rubs the bridge of his nose and from the way he looks, he's getting a migraine. Eggsy torn between wanting to soothe Harry and wanting answers that Harry's clearly reluctant to give. So Eggsy's patient and lets Harry go at his own pace.

"Caffrey - Neal Caffrey - had been a rather talented con man who called himself Nick Halden when I met him back in '04. I'd been trying to get close to a Russian oligarch who Kingsman believed was acting as a banker for the Taliban and Al Qaeda, and Nick had gotten himself into the Russian's inner circle."

"He's awfully pretty."

"Yes, he is. And I hadn't hesitated to take him up on what he'd offered. I needed an in, and he was it." Harry doesn't sound ashamed, but he definitely seems like he's afraid of Eggsy's reaction.

Eggsy only shrugs. "You were doing your job. We'd have a serious problem if I got bent out of shape every time I met a bloke or bird you did it with for the job. But that doesn't explain how this guy's working for the FBI - you said he'd been a con man. Was that a cover?"

"No. Caffrey had been on in the FBI's crosshairs for a few years - bond forgery, art forgery, all kinds of confidence schemes; he'd been associated with a very prominent hedge fund manager who'd stolen billions from his investors. I'd even thought about bringing Caffrey in as an asset - he's one of those smart and useful people that could get us into places we'd normally not be able to go."

"Like that Russian oligarch's inner circle."

"Exactly." Harry goes over to the bar and pours a glass of sparkling water for himself. It's a sign of just how freaked out he is that he doesn't offer Eggsy one. "But to make a long story short, the Russian got spooked and sent a hit squad to take out me and Caffrey."

"And Caffrey saw you do your thing?"

"Yes, and we'd been naked at the time. Turns out that Caffrey isn't a man who's particularly fond of violence."

Eggsy winces. He knows how lethal Harry is, with or without his clothes. "Ouch."

"Once I'd taken care of the hit squad, I got Caffrey to a beta site for interrogation. Kept him there for a week, but he had nothing to offer, other than what we'd already known. He'd been forging Impressionists and 'brokering' the sale to the mark. That's it. We'd given him the standard amnesia drugs and dropped him back at his apartment. I'd followed Caffrey's movements until he'd returned to New York and had promptly gotten himself arrested. Honestly never gave him another thought. Didn't even consider the possibility that he'd remember what happened or somehow make the connection back to Kingsman."

"Yeah, that's a puzzle."

"To put it mildly." Harry takes out the phone Neal had given him - it's a late model Android; not one of the super-expensive ones, but the kind that would be used as a better quality burner. "We need to get this unlocked, but I don't want to connect the phone to our Kingsman equipment. Who knows what's on here."

Eggsy touches the frame on his glasses and instantly connects to Merlin at HQ. 

_"About time ye checked in, lad. I've been listening to ye and Harry natter on about Caffrey, but it seems that Caffrey's tech did a number on my outbound connection."_

Eggsy gives a head's up to Harry, who also makes the connection back to HQ. "We need to unlock this."

_"Have ye tried just turning it on? If Caffrey wants ye to see what's on the phone, he might not have pass-coded it."_

Eggsy points out, "Caffrey said to get the phone unlocked, so I'm thinking he's locked it."

Harry tries to open the phone but as Eggsy had suspected, it does need to be unlocked. "Don't suppose we can hunt him down and chop off an index finger?"

Merlin has an easier solution, of course. _"Given that ye don't want to connect it to Kingsman tech and risk some kind of virus, I can email ye a link to an unlocking tool. Ye'll just need to get to a laptop or desktop and plug it in."_

Since this is a rather posh luxury hotel, there's a very handsome iMac on a desk in the living room and a basket of phone charging cables next to it. "You have my Gmail address; can you send the app there?"

It takes a little more than a minute for Eggsy to log in and find the message that Merlin had already sent. Harry hands him the phone and Eggsy fishes the right cable from the basket, plugs it in and launches the app. A few seconds later, the phone lets out a small chirp and the home screen is on the display. There are two apps - Contacts and something that gives Eggsy the chills. Gives Merlin and Harry the chills, too, since they both curse inventively and at length when they see a little icon with the Kingsman logo.

Eggsy says needlessly, "This don't look good."

"No, I'm afraid it doesn't."

Eggsy opens the Contacts app and finds a single entry, 79 Riverside Drive, Fourth Floor. Before going any further, Eggsy puts the address into Google. It doesn't seem terribly far; about two miles and a nice walk through Central Park. 

Harry's looking over his shoulder. "We'll take a cab over, given the time and the urgency of the situation."

"Maybe head over early, scope it out?"

"Of course."

_"Gentleman, what's on the phone, if ye don't mind?"_

Eggsy disconnects the device from the computer and takes a deep breath before tapping on the little reclining K icon. It opens up to a list of document folders, each named for a year, beginning with 2004 and ending with the current year, 2019. With a nod from Harry, Eggsy taps on 2004, which reveals folders named by month, starting with September, which he opens and gets thirty folders. "Beginning to feel like this is one of those Russian doll things."

Harry says, "Open the one for the seventeenth."

Eggsy's not sure why Harry picked that one, but he's not questioning it. One more tap gives them folders numbered 0100 to 2400 and Eggsy's starting to wonder if they're being punked. But a tap on the "1200" folder opens up to an endless list of emails.

"Merlin, what the hell is this?"

Merlin doesn't respond and Eggsy can almost hear Merlin's heartbeat start racing. Or maybe it's his. Merlin finally gives an instruction. _"Open the file named Galahad Mission Report - Roscov Operation."_

It's an email from Harry to Arthur, copying Merlin, dated September seventeenth, timestamped 12:42 PM .

_Attached please find my completed mission report for the Roscov Operation, including the summary of our interrogation of Neal Caffrey, civilian. I've also attached and signed my expense reports and weapons discharge reports. Please contact me if you have any questions._

Eggsy taps on one of the attached files and in a very few seconds, it opens up – it's just what the email said it would be, Harry's mission report. The next two hours are spent opening up the files and checking to see what's in them. It looks like every email that Kingsman has ever generated or received. 

Eggsy, without asking either Harry or Merlin for permission, goes to a folder in 2015 and to the month just before V-Day. It's tedious, but he digs through the folders, looking for emails to and from Chester. He finally finds what he's looking for, a message from Chester to Richmond Valentine, confirming their meeting and the topics to be discussed, including "The Purge".

Up until now, Merlin has been tense, but under control, but seeing the proof of the old crime flips a switch and the Kingsman's voice of reason and paragon of absolute control, loses his shit. _"That son of a bitch has had hooks into my system for fifteen fucking years and no one's known about it? That fucking bastard has access to every single Kingsman email despite the finest anti-intrusion systems ever created?"_

Eggsy asks the question that has been on his lips since they'd started digging through the files, "How is this even possible? It's got to be a huge amount of data to keep on a phone."

Merlin takes a break from shouting at his team and actually answers the question. _"That's what's so fucking brilliant about this. None of the data's been copied off of the Kingsman servers, whoever's done this has created data hooks - a shadow directory that can access all of these files without tripping any of my fail safes. I want the person who did this dead and his brain in a jar. Or I want him working for me."_

Harry takes off his glasses and rubs his remaining eye. This is a nightmare of unimaginable proportions. "Can you fix this?"

_"Not easily, Arthur. I don't know where the hook into our programming is, and even if I did, I'd have to take the whole system off-line to sanitize it. That will take days and there are too many operations going on."_

Harry asks, "What about the beta site, the backups?"

_"There's no guarantee that those aren't affected either. I suppose I could take the primary down and do the wipe and let the beta site run, then get the primary up and take the beta site down for cleansing. But we're still vulnerable."_

Harry is in full Arthur mode now, "Copy. Galahad and I will be home tomorrow, with or without Dyson. I want a complete assessment of the cost to operations if we have to shut down for an extended period. What will happen if we have to pull all field operations. As it stands, I'm putting Kingsman on lockdown, no new missions start until this problem is remediated. All agents are to be restricted to base and their comms surrendered you're certain that we're clear."

"Understood."

"I'll have some additional information for you in a few hours." Harry checks the time, it's five-thirty and they need to leave for the meet with Caffrey.

_"I'll be here._

Eggsy can't doesn't blame Merlin for his freak out and he's relieved that Harry doesn't blame Merlin for letting this happen or not finding the vulnerability - no system is completely invulnerable. "Take it easy, old friend. Whatever's been going on has been going on for a long time and no one's been the worse for it."

Merlin sounds a little calmer, a little less ready to commit bloody murder. _"Ye're right, but I'm not going to be able to rest knowing that someone's got a hook in us."_

Harry ends the call and looks at Eggsy. "Sorry about the abrupt end to the honeymoon."

Eggsy grimaces. "It's all right. Shit happens, don't it?"

"It does. And speaking of shit, we'd best get going. It looks like we won't have time to do recon before going in."

Eggsy goes to the safe and takes out their weapons and ammunition. Harry hands him his shoulder rig and they suit up, exchanging summer weight linen for Kingsman's bulletproof worsted. Eggsy adds a few throwing knives to his collection of armaments. Just to be on the safe side.

They take one of the unutterably foul yellow taxi cabs to the address that Neal had left for them and during the ride over, Merlin feeds them information about Caffrey since he'd left England. There's a lot to take in – an arrest and trial, a prison break for the most ridiculous reasons, four years working as an embedded criminal informant – basically a partner with a senior FBI agent in the White Collar division, the successful completion of that term, and his current work as an art restorer with several major New York City museums. Merlin's summary ends just as they pull up to Caffrey's address; Eggsy's rather surprised at what they find at 79 Riverside Drive – a mansion that wouldn't be out of place on Park Lane or Mayfair. "Seems that Caffrey's done well for himself, think he owns this place?"

"Anything's possible, but the address in the Contacts app said 'fourth floor' so perhaps not."

The house is just as grand close up as it is from the street and Eggsy's not surprised when a uniformed housekeeper answers the door. He lets Harry do the talking.

"We are here to see Mr. Neal Caffrey."

"Thank you, Marta, I'll deal with these gentlemen." The speaker is an elegantly dressed Black woman, with the kind of ageless and graceful beauty that Eggsy's only recently become accustomed to seeing. The housekeeper steps aside and disappears into the vast cavern of the house.

"Neal told me he was expecting guests." She offers her name, June Ellington, and within seconds, information is scrolling on the display in Eggsy's glasses. June Ellington is the owner of this mansion; she and her late husband had bought and renovated it during the financial crisis in the 1970s. The source of her wealth isn't a matter of public record, but the woman had once been a jazz singer of some fame and had been invited to perform at the White House in the early 1960s.

Eggsy's not sure how Harry's going to play this, but he's not surprised when his husband turns on the charm and introduces himself as the Earl of Hatton. It seems perfectly natural when the woman offers Harry her hand in the classic mode, and says, "A pleasure, Lord DeVere." Unlike the hostess at the restaurant at the Carlyle, June Ellington clearly has some experience with British nobility and knows how to properly address Harry.

Harry does the pretty and then completes the circle of introductions, "And this is my husband, Gareth."

Eggsy does the pretty, too, and air-kisses the back of June's hand. As he straightens up, there's the sound of clicking toe nails on the marble floor as a small dog comes to investigate. But just not any small dog; it's a rather elderly pug and Eggsy can't help himself. He's instantly charmed and bends over to greet the dog. "Well, hello there. Who are you?"

Despite her age, June gracefully bends down and picks up the tiny beast. "This is Bugsy Siegelbaum, say hello to our guests."

The dog, like his mistress, actually holds out a paw and Eggsy takes it, giving it a gentle shake. "I have one much like you at home. His name is JB."

Bugsy snuffles in acknowledgement.

Eggsy does remember that they are here for a reason and says, "We're here to see Neal Caffrey, is he here?"

"He is; please come with me."

They follow June into a formal parlor, but there's no sign of their target. Instead, June goes over to a table with a large box on it and lifts up the lid. "Before I take you to see Neal, please put your weapons in here. He doesn't like guns and neither do I."

Eggsy doesn't blink, but he does look at Harry, who demurs, "Weapons, madam?"

"I wasn't born yesterday and I have far too much experience with people who carry guns. Both of you are wearing shoulder harnesses, and Gareth has a holster on his right ankle. His gait is slightly canted to the left."

Harry doesn't look at Eggsy as he takes out his Tokarev and Eggsy follows suit, also removing the small SIG Sauer in the ankle holster. They put their weapons in the box and Eggsy is glad he thought to take a few throwing knives. Except June tells him to put them in the box, too.

She closes it, turns the key, which she then removes and pockets. "Now, I realize that you'll be able to pick that lock in about three seconds, but let's consider this an exercise in trust.

Harry nods, "Understood."

"And you can leave your umbrella here. Although Neal's apartment is on the top floor, I promise that the roof is solid, the plumbing is good, and it won't rain inside."

Harry gives the woman a sour smile and his Rainmaker, which she deposits in a stand near the front door. "Of course, you can retrieve everything on the way out. June points to the stairs, "Just knock on the door at the top of the fourth floor. Neal is waiting for you."

Merlin's been quiet up to this point, but as they head up the staircase, he says, _"She is rather terrifying. Ye didn't set off any metal detectors and it's almost impossible to tell that ye're carrying."_

"Almost impossible?" Eggsy's been told that Kingsman suits are cut to disguise their holsters. "Merlin, have the tailors been lying to me?"

_"Ye know that the reason why Ian Fleming had James Bond carry a Walther PPK was so that it wouldn't interfere with the cut of his suit. If someone knows what to look for, it's not hard to see the outline of the Kingsman Tokarevs. They are not subtle weapons."_

"How did she figure out about the Rainmaker, though?"

_"Carrying an umbrella inside isn't subtle, either."_

"True." They get to the top of the fourth floor, and a closed door.

_"All right, I'll be monitoring, but ye're going to have to be creative if this goes south. I'll alert the pilot that ye might need an early takeoff."_

"You don't seem overly concerned."

_"About yer meeting with Caffrey? I am, but not for yer health and safety. Caffrey is – as Arthur told ye and according to everything I've been able to find on him – almost pathologically averse to violence. Besides, ye have yer signet rings and lighters. And ye're both fucking lethal with just yer hands and feet and whatever ye can find lying about. If Galahad and Arthur can't take down one conman on the cusp of middle-age, then maybe it's time to replace them with newer models. I'm more worried about the not-so-subtle threat to the entire Kingsman organization that Caffrey's made and how to eliminate it."_

Harry nods. "Caffrey isn't a physical threat, or at least not one that we can't handle. I suggest we stop dithering and get ourselves on the other side of that door." With that, Harry knocks, rapping smartly on the heavy wood door.

They don't get an acknowledgement, but Eggsy can hear someone moving close. It feels too damn weird to be going into this unarmed, but as Merlin has said, Caffrey's one man with no history of violent behavior. He and Harry can do a lot of damage without their guns and knives. Nothing to worry about.

Caffrey opens the door and he's smiling. "You're a little late. Come in."

As soon as they step into the room, the signal in Eggsy's glasses cuts out with an audible snick, and whatever comfort he'd taken at the thought that he and Harry could certainly deal with one middle-aged man with an allergy to violence is replaced by instant wariness.

Caffrey has a guest, and from the looks of him, he doesn't seem as predisposed to non-violence as their host is.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Eggsy meet Peter Burke, who doesn't have patience for anyone's bullshit. Which is good, because Harry doesn't either.

"Stop pacing." Peter's tone is firm, commanding, and under normal circumstances, Neal would obey like Satchmo.

"If I don't pace, I'm going to want to have more wine. And I've already had enough." Despite that declaration, Neal goes to the wine rack and pulls out a bottle of Italian red and opens it. It needs to breathe, so he circles the room again and checks the time, it's a quarter to six, and he figures that his guests will be exceedingly punctual. He wishes he hadn't let June disengage his access to the security camera, this way, he could see when the DeVeres arrive. Neal wonders if those two really are married; he finds the idea kind of charming given that that they are both spies.

"Neal, sit." Peter now uses _that_ voice, the one that's impossible to disobey. Neal drops his ass onto one of the dining chairs and reaches for the FBI folder that started this cluster fuck. "I shouldn't have done this; I should have kept my mouth shut and let it all play out. DeVere wouldn't have engaged in a firefight with the FBI, I should have realized that. He'd have just – "

"He'd have used his connections to make this disappear, but left the FBI - _me_ \- holding a bag of shit. I probably could have weathered the fallout, but you were just trying to protect me."

"Good intentions, bad execution. Did the wrong thing for the right reasons,. Maybe that should go on my headstone."

"Calm down, Neal. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"What can you do against a pair of dedicated spies who have no issues about killing people?"

"They aren't going to kill you or kill me. Not now, not tomorrow. Not ever. And they aren't going to do anything that's going to bring attention to themselves, not if they can help it."

Neal wishes he could crawl onto Peter's lap and be held like a child. It's a foolish and juvenile thought for a man about to turn forty, but then Peter has called him "Peter Pan" for a reason. Once again, Neal apologizes, "I'm sorry about dragging you into this."

"You didn't drag me into anything; I was the one who dropped the file on you. And I was the one who tracked you down this afternoon and got myself involved."

Neal desperately wants some wine. Not out of any desire to get drunk, but he needs something to do with his hands. And then he sees his sketchbook on the table and grabs it, he is an artist after all and this has always been something that's soothed him.

Peter doesn't say anything, he just leans back in his chair and tilts his head, letting Neal sketch. As he lays down hard lines and delicate cross-hatching, the anxiety begins to recede. Yeah, he's invited a stone-cold killer to come and visit, but DeVere, unlike Matthew Keller, is someone who has to play by a set of rules. And one of those rules is not drawing attention to himself. 

As a precaution, Neal has told June to leave the house after DeVere arrives, taking Bugsy and Marta with her, so that's another potential threat neutralized. Now, if DeVere and his _whatever_ ever show up, they can get this problem sorted out without any blood spilled.

Neal finishes the sketch at checks the time; it's now ten past six. "I thought that spies would be punctual."

Peter sighs but before he can again tell Neal to relax, there's a sharp knock on the door. "Showtime."

Neal puts on his best game face and goes to let the DeVeres in. He can't quite help himself and chides his guests for their tardiness.

Gareth, not DeVere, apologizes. "We had every intention on being a bit early, but well – when you have to diffuse a ticking bomb, you kind of lose track of time."

Neal's confused. "Bomb?"

DeVere replies, "Your wedding present. Very impressive. As impressive as your landlady."

Neal ignores the comment about June. "Ah, yes. Well, what did you expect? A silver tea service to mark the happy occasion? Is that something a pair of spies would find useful?" Neal can't help the snark; it's not often that he entertains stone cold killers in his apartment.

Peter cuts him off, "Neal – "

Peter knows that he's freaking out and Neal retreats to formality and good manners to get control of himself. "I guess introductions are in order. Peter Burke, FBI Special Agent in Charge, White Collar Division – " Neal waits for Peter to hold out his hand to complete the introductions, "the Earl of Hatton, Henry DeVere, and Gareth DeVere." But then he can't help himself and adds, "Allegedly."

"Actually, Neal, our guests really are the Earl of Hatton and his new spouse."

"Really?" That kind of shocks Neal. He'd thought that the peerage had been some kind of cover.

"Really. I checked Debrett's."

Neal laughs and gives DeVere an assessing look. "Then it had been more than a little ballsy of you to call yourself Henry DeVere when you were trying to go after Roscov all of those years ago."

DeVere has an answer, of course. "Nineteen Henry DeVeres had been born between 1961 and 1965 in England. A man as experienced with creating aliases as you are, you should know that the best ones are those that can get lost in a crowd."

"And a good alias has a touch of authenticity to it." Neal had learned that from Mozzie. And now he starts to freak out over this commonality with the pair of spies. "Can I get you something? Wine, maybe? Tea? Coffee?" He's babbling.

_What the hell is wrong with him?_

Peter, bless him, saves the day and slightly redirects Neal's freak out when he suggests. "A glass of wine would be nice. The 2009 _Clos des Papes_ would be a good choice. It's already open and breathing." 

Neal tries not to gape at this astonishing chain of words from a man who never fails to bring him wine in screw top bottles. "Peter, you continue to surprise me."

"I'm not a complete savage, you know."

Neal does know that, and he also knows that it's probably best to just follow Peter's lead. He brings the wine and glasses over and lets Peter do the pour. Peter, who has the most exquisite sense of humor and perfect timing, actually offers a toast. "To mutual cooperation."

DeVere actually smiles and Gareth says, "Works for me."

The glasses are touched, the wine is sipped and there is no more room for deflections and delays. So Neal states the obvious, "You got the phone unlocked."

DeVere nods. "And we saw what you have. My quartermaster is very impressed. He either wants you dead or working for him. If you're the one responsible for the hack." DeVere clearly doesn't think so, but Neal's not going to expose even the idea of Mozzie to these people.

"Not happening - either dead or working for you."

DeVere nods, conceding at least the last point. "This has all been extremely interesting and a rather elaborate set up. But one thing isn't clear, what do you want?"

"You need to back off of the purchase of the Iraqi antiquities from the Argent Gallery tomorrow. Just walk away."

"We can't do that."

Peter steps in, "You're after Dyson, right? He's your target, you couldn't care less about the antiquities."

DeVere nods. "He's been on my organization's radar for a long time. He's a link to a financial funnel for multiple terrorist organizations, but he's been out of reach until now. The FBI is after him, too?"

Peter grimaces and makes that face that Neal's seen too many times when he's staring down some order from the brass that he doesn't like. "I'm going to make a gesture of good faith, one that might just put me in the dog house. The Manhattan District Attorney has an on-going series of cases, one that gives them good press and generates a lot of international good will - they call it the Antiquities Project. They are going after buyers and sellers of stolen artifacts. Someone at the Argent Gallery tipped off the DA about your impending purchase; and the DA has asked us to front the operation because of the international nature of the transaction. The FBI has a warrant for your arrest once the sale is completed. The NYPD will be taking Dyson into custody as the seller of looted antiquities."

DeVere asks, "And Caffrey is involved, how?"

"Neal's been consulting for the FBI for a while. He'd helped us with a very similar case about ten years ago, and when the DA asked for my division's assistance, I thought it would be good to bring Neal in to confirm the authenticity of the pieces, so I'd given him access to the case file. Let's just say he'd gotten a bit upset when he saw your name and face."

Neal can see the wheels turning in DeVere's head, so he goes for cover. "Peter knows the bare minimum. What happened in '04 and that you're spies. That's it. I figured that things would turn very ugly if I let him arrest you at the airport."

"And that's why you are blackmailing me?" DeVere takes out the phone Neal had given him. He turns to Peter, "Did your 'consultant' tell you about this?"

"Yes, he did. I'm not happy about it, but it's done."

"You're an officer of the law, and yet you're condoning his actions?"

Peter shrugs. "I have no solid proof of what Neal's done. Do you wish to lodge a formal complaint? If you do, you'll need to provide evidence that a crime has been committed. And once that happens, it's all a matter of public record. The FISA courts aren't going to protect an unnamed foreign espionage organization." Peter sticks his hands in his pockets and grins.

Neal is impressed - and mildly aroused - by Peter's display of alpha-dog brinkmanship.

"You know that we can't do that." 

Neal feels the need to add, "And you can't do anything to me - not if you don't want your secrets out there, Wikileaks style."

DeVere sighs. "All this drama, and just to get us to back off of a case that isn't even an FBI matter."

Neal doesn't want to admit he over-reacted. "If I'd asked you nicely to back off, would you have?"

DeVere confirms Neal's initial reaction. "Likely not. And I still don't know if I want to let you have Dyson. The FBI's track record on pursuing Western European terrorists isn't stellar. They'd turned a blind eye to the IRA for decades."

Peter asks, "Tell me the truth; are you planning on terminating Dyson?"

Neal can't quite believe that Peter can so calmly ask if murder is on the table, and then expect a truthful answer.

"No, and if it had been, we'd have taken care of Dyson as soon as he'd surfaced. We need to flip him; with the right incentives, he'll be our way in to the organizations he washes money for. Our plan is to take Dyson back with us."

Neal isn't surprised that DeVere doesn't say where "back" actually is. "So, had I said nothing and let the FBI intercept you at the airport, it would have been a mess."

Gareth grins and Neal, who had previously discounted the threat the young man represented, sees the lethality in that smile. He tries not to shiver.

Peter, however, doesn't react at all. But he surprises everyone when he says, "Dyson hasn't been on the FBI radar at all, and the NYPD is going to make that arrest, he'll be charged with the possession and sale of stolen property, that's it. There's currently no case file open for Dyson as a terrorist."

Gareth asks, "You'd let us have Dyson?"

"As long as you're not planning on killing him, yes. Frankly, I wish I'd never heard of any of this. I want the loot, you want Dyson."

"I also want Neal Caffrey out of my computer systems. That's non-negotiable." DeVere growls.

Neal realizes that despite the pleasantries, his life is hanging by a thread. "If I give you the location of the hook into your system, and you undo it, what guarantee to I have that you'll leave me alone? This is my only insurance."

"You're telling me you haven't made copies of what you've got? That would be your insurance."

_Well, shit._ Neal isn't sure if Mozzie's made copies. 

The silence in the room is sweaty and uncomfortable, and Neal can't take it anymore. "I guess this is why you're the super spies and I'm just a reformed con man trying to protect my best friend. And for the record, I'm much better with the long cons. I'm out of practice with these spur of the moment things."

Peter, the bastard, actually laughs. 

Gareth says, to no one in particular. "So, we're at a bit of a stand-off, no?"

Peter offers a solution. "Any chance you can get an international arrest warrant for Dyson before this goes down tomorrow? You arrest him at the Argent Gallery, we argue a bit over jurisdiction, but we get the looted antiquities and you take Dyson back to wherever you're from."

"You know, we aren't police officers." But from DeVere's smile, it seems as if they are willing to play along.

"No, actually, I don't know that at all. The only thing I know is that you're supposed to be the Earl of Hatton and the newly-wedded Mr. Gareth DeVere. If you show up with the right identification and a warrant, who am I to gainsay you? I'm sure if I call Interpol after you take Dyson away, they'll verify that you're from Scotland Yard or whatever international branch that's appropriate and someone will apologize for not having properly coordinate with the NYPD and the FBI on the sting operation. I'll make some angry noises in response and that will be that."

"We can work with that." DeVere finishes his wine and holds up the glass contemplatively. "This is really rather lovely. '09 _Clos des Papes_? I've never been overly fond of Chateauneuf-du-Pape varietals, but this is nice. I do remember that you always had good taste in wine, Neal. Nice to see that some things haven't changed."

Neal feels the beginning of a humiliated blush form on his face. "My taste in men, however, has definitely improved."

DeVere smirks at the well-deserved hit. "Ouch."

"We still need to sort out the little technical problem Neal's created."

"And do you have a proposed solution, Agent Burke?"

"The way I'm looking at it, Neal's been collecting this data and doing nothing with it for fifteen years. I'm guessing that he'd probably forgotten he'd had it and would never have thought to use it if you hadn't shown up in that case file. He's not interested in exposing your secrets. Hell, he has outright refused to tell me who you work for; he's only doing this to protect me. When you get Dyson out of U.S. airspace, he'll call whatever number you give him and tell them how to get the hook out of your system."

"And what's to keep us from coming after Neal after he gives us what we want?"

"Me. And the fact that there's still quite a bit of time between now and the take-down tomorrow for copies to be made of some particularly embarrassing data. I'm not fond of blackmail, but it does have its uses."

"I must say, Agent Burke, for a member of law enforcement, you're rather creative when it comes to your solutions. I'm guessing that you've had to do this a few times to protect your consultant."

Peter chuckles and Neal wants to punch him, "Oh, you have no idea."

They spend the next hour going over the details of the operation, but Neal mostly stays out of it. An FBI sting like this doesn't require his input – especially since he's no longer the Bureau's favorite stalking horse. He manages to send a quick text to Moz asking him to download everything about the tailors, and Moz confirms that he already has, so that's a slight relief.

DeVere seems to have no problem raiding his wine rack, and like Moz, has an eye for the best and most expensive vintages. By the time they're done, Neal's out a bottle of Barolo and the Amarone that he'd been saving for a very special occasion. His consulting fee with the Bureau isn't going to cover the replacement costs.

Peter leans back in his chair, looking extremely satisfied. "Well, unless Dyson doesn't show up or you don't get your warrant, I think we're good to go."

Neal's a bit surprised that Peter hadn't made air-quotes around the word warrant. 

The DeVeres look at each other, they seem to have that whole silent communication thing down pat, and Neal finds he'd like to know their story. Spies in love just seem so implausible.

Instead of asking, Neal just says, "Until tomorrow?"

"Until tomorrow."

Peter gets up, too. "I'll show you out."

When the three men leave the apartment, Neal heads out to the balcony so he can finally breathe. There's way too much testosterone inside.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, Eggsy, Peter and Neal work together like a well oiled machine. Dyson's in custody and it's just a matter of cleaning up the mess.

Harry isn't at all surprised that the operation goes off like clockwork. The FBI might be many things, but they are good at arresting people. They are also good at chest thumping and making all the right noises about jurisdiction and interference with on-going investigations and registering with Interpol as a foreign law enforcement agency operating in the U.S. 

Burke makes it a point to examine both the warrant that Harry had for Dyson, and the warrant cards that he and Eggsy displayed as proof of their authority. He takes the paper and goes to make a telephone call while Eggsy and one of the local cops make stink eyes at each other. When one of Burke's agents asked to see a badge in addition to the warrant card, Harry very politely advises that his unit doesn't carry badges, but if he'd like to call their home office for confirmation, Harry would be happy to provide a number.

It's a bit of brinkmanship that Harry always enjoys. Burke, however, made it unnecessary when he says he's gotten confirmation on the warrant and they have no choice but to let the Brits have Dyson. It seems that funding terrorism takes precedence over the sale of stolen antiquities.

Even in handcuffs, Dyson looks smug as they wait for Eggsy to bring the car around; it's one of those ubiquitous black sedans that could be a hire car, a police vehicle, or a hit man's ride. Harry gets in the back with Dyson and smiles politely – because manners always matter – as he shoots Dyson with a knock-out dart. The smug look fades fast.

They head out of the city, towards the airport and once they're through a tunnel, Eggsy finds a quiet side street where he and Eggsy transfer Dyson to the boot. Instead of waiting until they are in transit, Harry also uses this as an opportunity to call Neal on a cell phone number that Merlin had captured. They'd had no time to talk during the operation. Neal had been busy verifying the authenticity of the pieces that Dyson had expected to sell to the Earl of Hatton, when they'd left the gallery with Dyson in tow. 

Neal doesn't sound the least bit surprised to hear his voice.

_"Other than the obvious, what do you want?"_

"I do owe you some gratitude. This would have gotten ugly if the transaction had gone off as the FBI originally planned."

_"No gratitude is necessary."_ Caffrey doesn't sound too interested in maintaining this conversation. 

Harry retaliates for the thinly veiled rudeness by pushing a few of Caffrey's buttons, "You and Agent Burke seem quite fond of each other. You called him your best friend."

_"He is, and if this is a threat – "_

Harry can hear the panic in Neal's voice and dials it back. "No threat, just a statement of fact. It's not hard to see what he means to you and you mean to him. He's the one you've gone straight for. Well, straight in _one_ sense of the word."

_"Enough with the jokes, Henry."_

Harry really hates that name and figures there's no reason now not to correct Neal. "It's Harry. Harry Hart." 

_"That's not your real name, if you really are the Earl of Hatton."_

"I am, but I've gone by Harry Hart for so long, it's the name I'm most comfortable with."

Neal is quiet for a moment. _"Thank you for trusting me with that. And I guess now you'd like to get your systems unhooked."_

"That would be nice."

Neal reads off a set of computer coordinates – bit sectors on a hard drive. _"That should be what your IT people need to find the hook I put in."_

"You mean the one your friend put in – the one who made that very interesting set of eyeglasses. You may be very talented at many things, Neal, but this level of technological sophistication is beyond you."

Neal doesn't give an inch, _"Think what you'd like."_

Harry sighs. "I'm sorry about what happened all of those years ago. It could have been handled better."

_"You mean you wish you had better mind-wipe drugs."_

"No, I wish I'd treated you less like an expendable mark and more of a valued asset."

_"Well, I guess that's something. Though I'm not sure if I'd have enjoyed being your trick pony."_

"Who knows, you just might have." 

At that, Harry ends the call and checks to see if Merlin had gotten what Neal told him.

_"Aye, and he's a tricksy bugger. I'd actually found it about an hour ago, this just confirms it. I'm still going to have to take everything down and do a complete reboot and deep system diagnostic to make sure we're clear."_

"Wait until Galahad and I are home to do the reboot. If it's clean, we'll lift the lockdown."

_"Understood, Arthur. And safe travels."_

Harry checks that Dyson's properly secured and sedated, with sufficient ventilation – it would be rather annoying to have the man die from heat stroke after everything they've gone through to get him. He'll be held in the pressurized cargo of the Kingsman jet that's waiting for them, a Kingsman med tech watching over him for the flight home.

He gets in the front seat next to Eggsy, who pulls back onto the main highway. The traffic is light enough that they are at the airport in less than an hour, and with the perks of traveling by private plane, they don't need to go through the rigmarole of security, and immigration is handled on arrival. Or it would be if they are landing at an actual airport, and not at HQ. 

Eggsy's been remarkably subdued since they left the gallery and Harry had chalked it up to mission come-down, but now he can see that Eggsy's a little put out. "What's the matter, darling?"

"Nothing." 

"It's not nothing. You look unhappy with me."

"You'll tell me that I'm being silly."

"Is this about Caffrey? I though you didn't have a problem with meeting up with an old mark."

"Heard what you said to him back there, when you were on the phone. Didn't mean to eavesdrop, but your voice carried. Heard you say that you wished you'd treated him like a valued asset." Eggsy makes a face, like he knows he's being stupid but can't help himself.

"Please don't be jealous, Eggsy. He means nothing to me, and it doesn't cost anything to make him feel better about what happened. We were rather awful to him; you know what a standard interrogation is like."

"Yeah. Had to do a bunch of those for endurance training – and even when you're expecting it, it's still kind of an ugly mind fuck."

"And Caffrey's not the type who reacts well to violence. Unlike someone I know, he doesn't get turned on by a good fight." Harry looks at his husband and remembers their first encounter as adults, his own peacocking at The Black Prince and Eggsy's beautiful reaction to it. Caffrey would leave the continent if faced with a situation like that. In fact, that's just what he'd done all of those years ago. Makes Harry wonder just how he'd survived four years behind bars.

"So, you being all nice to Caffrey is meaningless. Because manners maketh man, and all that."

"Exactly." Harry takes the seat next to Eggsy and after he buckles in, takes his husband's hand and kisses it. "You are the only person I've ever loved, Eggsy. You mean everything to me and I'd burn down the world before I'd let anyone come between us."

Eggsy pulls Harry's hand to his lips and returns the kiss. "Good, because I really liked New York and wouldn't mind coming back with you, which would be all kinds of awkward if I have to kill the fucker."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Hey, Neal." A warm arm wraps around his waist, giving him a brief hug.

"Hey, El. Didn't hear you come in." Neal had been on the balcony, watching the sun set. Peter is out with Satchmo and a tennis ball, playing fetch in the evening sunlight.

"I've been working on my stealthiness. Maybe I should apply to the CIA."

Neal suppresses a shudder. He's had more than his fill of spies. "I think Peter would be pissed if you went to work for a rival agency. And I'd prefer that you stay with the National Gallery, they have much better art."

Elizabeth chuckles, "I don't think the CIA has any art."

"That's what I mean." Neal lets out a tiny but heartfelt sigh. The DeVeres are back home, Dyson's being flipped (he hopes), and the DA is relatively happy it's been able to shut down the Argent Gallery and recover the loot. It didn't hurt that a raid on Dyson's office and apartment had turned up a hundred other pieces from the Mosul Museum. 

"Long week? Peter said he had you working on a case with him. Too much back in the saddle after the low-stress life of art restoration?"

"Yeah. I love your husband, I have the deepest respect for the people who work with him, but I'm thinking it's time to cut the cord with the FBI. No more consulting."

El nods, "I'd say it's about time. You've been holding onto that thread for a little too long. You can stand on your own, Neal. You've got a good business, a sterling reputation, you don't need the Bureau."

"Are you sure? Sometimes I wonder if I could stay on this path if I didn't have Peter backing me up."

"Peter isn't the FBI, Neal. You have Peter at your back, and you always will. That's what counts. The FBI is like a worn out security blanket. You don't need them anymore. You've proved that you're the man, not the con, many times over."

The events of the past two days make that a little less true, but then Neal thinks about how wrong this afternoon could have gone if he hadn't freaked out about DeVere. Or _Hart_. Or whatever his name is. Neal looks down at Elizabeth and wonders for the millionth time, how had he gotten so lucky to call this woman his friend. To have her blessing and eager encouragement to share her husband. "Thank you. For everything."

El wrinkles her nose at all of the emotion in Neal's voice, then does her best to break the mood. "I'm still waiting for that Monet for the living room. That's how you can thank me."

Neal smiles, understanding just what she's doing. "I'll get started on it tomorrow. But you know I'll have to sign it 'NC'. Don't want to get in trouble with a certain FBI agent, he still watches me like a hawk."

There's a clatter of toe nails and a trailing dog leash over the balcony tile, followed by the slightly squeaky tread of sneakers. Peter works his way between wife and lover and drapes slightly sweaty arms over them. "You two look like you're plotting to take over the world."

Neal wraps an arm around Peter's waist and feels Elizabeth do the same from the other side. "No need to take over the world. I've got everything I want right here."

__

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Your hits, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated and keep me inspired!


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